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But he’d calmed down. He was thinking again. And what he thought was that the door was bolted. The windows, too. He’d taken care of that before his meeting with the sultan. He had a Beretta stashed beneath the mattress and a beautiful woman in his bed.
His body tightened.
And he was going to have her.
Stress always took its toll. Life in Special Forces and then in the Agency had taught him that. Meditation had its place but there were times you needed more than that.
Some men used alcohol, others used drugs. Cam had learned, a long time back, that what worked for him was hot, raw sex. Sex with a woman beautiful and experienced enough to make you forget the niceties of civilized behavior.
Layla damned well fit the bill.
Some long minutes inside her, feeling her honeyed heat, tasting that soft-looking mouth, and he’d be fine. He’d be better when she stopped playacting and admitted she wanted it as much as he did. She was good, pretending she didn’t, but she’d slipped a few minutes ago when he was taking off his shirt.
What he’d seen in her eyes then wasn’t panic. It was awareness of him as a man.
And that was how he wanted it, now that he was back in control of his emotions. A woman who liked sex was the only kind worth screwing.
Games? Sure. A gorgeous woman, his for the taking but pretending she wasn’t, could be a turn-on.
Rape wasn’t.
It was time for the act to end and the real thing to start.
Cam looked down again at the woman lying beneath him. She was beautiful, a creature of pale gold skin and darker gold hair. She was a dancer, Asaad had said. Never mind the rest. That was how he’d think of her now, as his partner in an erotic dance they’d both
enjoy.
“Look at me,” he said. When she didn’t, he caught her chin in his hand and forced her face to his. “Open your eyes.”
Slowly, she did as he’d commanded. Her irises, ringed in black, were the deep blue of a summer sky. Her lashes were long and thick, spiky with tears. Tears? Definitely, she was good at what she did. At making a man want her and, God, he wanted her with every beat of his blood.
“I’ve never paid for a woman,” he said huskily, “but if I did, I might just start with you.”
He reached out, traced the fullness of her bottom lip with the tip of his finger, felt her tremble. He bent toward her, brushed his mouth over hers.
“All the time we were in the courtyard,” he whispered, “I kept thinking about your mouth. About all the things it was made to do.”
Slowly he put his lips to hers again, harder this time, hard enough to feel the swift intake of her breath.
“Stop pretending you don’t want this,” he said roughly. “Kiss me. Let me taste you. Let me do this right.”
She made a little sound and tried to pull away as he lowered his head to hers again, and he thrust his hand into her hair, felt the golden curls twine around his fingers as he held her mouth captive to his.
The game was still on.
He kissed her. Her mouth was warm and soft. Cam groaned, changed the angle of the kiss until she made a little sound and her lips parted.
“That’s it,” he said and slid his tongue into her mouth, felt the sweet delicacy of her shudder as he tasted her.
God, she was driving him crazy.
The feel of her mouth. The smell of her skin. The press of her naked breasts against his chest…
He drew back, cupped the small, perfect mounds. Her eyes flew open; color flooded her face.
“You have incredible breasts,” he said hoarsely.
“Please,” she whispered, “please, I beg you…”
